Finally.

Now Elian Gonzales can go to Florida by boat without feeling guilty.

He understood beautifully that ideology was more important than cancer or justice or peppermint drops.

We have witnesses–the black soil, the yellow sand, the long roads but also the twisted roads, the tangerines scattered in the plain but also the plums enclosed in the saddlebag, the valiant man on the horse but also the man who was shot to death while running away.

The problem here is that we don’t have a background music that tells us how we are supposed to feel.

He got everything he wanted with his promiscuous and gluttonous Orishas, his spy networks, his emancipating slogans for the proletariat in the nation of eggs and emotion and camaraderie.

Communists have nothing to offer but cheap kerosene and Jose Marti stickers.

I hate capitalism but getting rich by selling high and buying low is the most enlightening expectation.

For such a powerful name we were expecting a death with more glamour.

Senile Pasada Carriles is still creating assassination plots wearing socks with flip flops up and down Calle 8. Someone has to stop him.

Regardless, we always had the sun and the stars and the space and the secular forests full of bee hummingbirds and clementines.

I wonder whether things could have been different had he read epic poetry fables written in an unorthodox fashion.

CIA tried it all from fulminant fungus to poisoned pastry to brujeria’s works with elephant tusks from Africa.

He did what he thought as honorable albeit the vagaries and acerbic happenings.

Silvio Rodriguez is sitting on a rostrum in Prado Avenue leaned against bronze lions singing a testimony of angelic dry love in times of scarcity.

We must remember him, the Prince of the Moncada, a thousand feet above earth or a thousand feet below, a Cohiba shoved in his mouth, a beret wrapping his head, pupils swollen from desire, skull swollen with desire, loudly-brained, in green, out in the air.

White flowers over a white tablecloth are covering the odd scrabbling light of the ashy-bearded tall man at the end of his legend.

The base of the white flowers is chained to the table so that nobody steals it.

Yet some are spewing streams of tears on railroads and plantations and bus stops and Eusebio Leal’s sidewalks and the Santa Barbara Cathedral and the Saint of Sick Dogs Cathedral and the Rincon Cathedral with its fountain of supernatural water that cures leprosy.

When Submarine B-59 carrying a 15-kiloton nuclear torpedo was returned from Cuban waters to The Soviet Union, they denied us the possibility of watching Star Wars from the front row.

Traqueteo  Comecandela is languishing in jail for leaking hundreds of documents that reveal the cost of Angola’s war measured in gallons of Cuban blood.

His low death toll in comparison with marvelous Germany and The Soviet Union makes him an underachiever.

We had to wait 66 years, 26 days, 40 minutes and 25 seconds of misery to see him passing away peacefully, of natural causes, surrounded by family and friends holding their tears.

Never ever again.

Raúl Castro is smiling hideously in front of the television camera, not knowing what to do with the struggles of the common man alone with his mind in his own worst universe.

History will add it all –the glories, the absences, the unnecessary losses and also that amorous story witnessed by the flag and the guerilla.

Real heroes have blue tights.

Yet somewhere a Cuban baby is being born with a heart full of hope and an eyeball sore from anemia.